


The Bedouin's Reward

by OutRes



Category: Battlefield (Video Games)
Genre: Cultural Differences, Fictional Figures, Foot Fetish, Foot Massage, Gen, Historical Figures, Male-Female Friendship, Period-Typical Homophobia, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Tattoos, Unrequited Crush, art "appreciation", no but seriously Art Appreciation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-10
Updated: 2020-10-10
Packaged: 2021-03-08 03:34:15
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,056
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26938975
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/OutRes/pseuds/OutRes
Summary: Fresh from her victory over the Iron Beast, all Zara Ghufran wants to do is to clean her gear and settle in for the night. Little does she know that her commander and confidant, the fabled Lawrence of Arabia, has other ideas...
Relationships: T.E. Lawrence & Zara Ghufran
Kudos: 4





	The Bedouin's Reward

**Author's Note:**

> This fic is largely based off the "Nothing is Written" chapter of the Battlefield 1 campaign. Apologies if I got any cultural details wrong, I'm largely just drawing from the game, the film "Lawrence of Arabia" and some Wikipedia digging.

If she had to be honest with herself, Zara Ghufran felt like she was still there.

_There._

The Bedouin rebel sighed, fidgeting with her sliver of a dagger in her too-large tent as she worked to scrape some dried blood off her golden bracers. The… housing, as Lawrence had called it, was a provision of his own insistence; his belief being that his second-in-command should want for nothing.

 _Just one odd belief among a herd of them_ , she ruminated.

Another one: His reliance on sending that very same second-in-command deep into Ottoman territory. Alone. Armed with just her dagger and her wits. The hopes of their cause heavy upon her hunched back, as her hands bloodily laid the groundwork for the so-called Lawrence of Arabia’s campaign.

Again, a sigh.

_You like doing it._

She did.

The Ottomans had taken much from her.

But there was something she hadn’t prepared for, something she hadn’t even considered in the vengeance-fueled haze that drove her to do the terrible yet righteous things that she’d done.

It was the memory. Not so much of the Ottomen soldiers themselves; no, their glassy expressions as she shot or blasted or stabbed them with the tools of her trade remained far from her mind’s eye, whisked away by the flame of her anger toward them. 

Rather, it was the echo of a sensation, of darting through the dust, bullets ricocheting every-which-way as she carried out her objectives. And then there were the _screams_ , not just of her fellow Bedouin dying in the dirt, but the poorly-oiled gears of tanks and cannons and a dozen other devilish inventions carving wretched chunks out of the desert in which she’d spent her thirty-six years of life.

It was a constant reminder of war, something that the Bedouin had played at in the past but never before had experienced to this degree. But... it was also an indication that change had come to her homeland. Whether it was ultimately good or bad… well, that was up to Lawrence and her.

She twitched again, cringing against the phantom bits of shrapnel cast by an errant grenade. The knife snaked out of her flailing grip, embedding itself in the throw rug next to the stool on which she sat.

“ _Hemar!_ ” Zara cursed in self-reproach, dropping the bracer and thumping the back of her head against the tough wooden pole that kept the walls of her tent aloft.

It was in this sordid moment that Thomas Edward Lawrence, half-drunk from liquor and adoration, came to check in on the _other_ hero of the hour.

The man paused at the threshold. Held a curious gaze towards Zara, who’d closed her eyes and slumped against the support, trembling hands dipping under the keffiyeh on her head to thread through greasy black locks of hair.

He kept his voice low - while somehow retaining all of its usual boisterous qualities - as he said, “I can see the night is treating you only _slightly_ worse than it is me.” Zara annoyedly cracked open an eye, having already heard her superior’s wobbling footfalls in the sand from yards off.

Her accent was thick as she bitterly replied, “I doubt it.”

_I’ve no patience for his little British idiosyncrasies tonight._

Despite that, Zara didn’t stop Lawrence from sidling his way into the tent, eschewing a chair completely as he plopped down upon the dusty rug in front of her. 

He reached over and yanked the knife out of its sandy sheath, examining it. “Cleaning your bracers?”

Zara remained supine, her long-held stoicism holding steady.

Lawrence began babbling about post-battle logistics, troop movements, and their future plans regarding the Suez Canal. These were things both parties were innately aware of. And because of that, Zara immediately recognized the tell.

As the Englishman’s mouth flapped, Zara’s practiced eye spotted her counterpart’s own, conspicuous to her in their study of her face. Even as Lawrence murmured about battleships, she could practically feel his pupils tracing the intricate tattoos that marked her features.

_Is he…_

But he couldn’t be. She had picked up on Lawrence’s… preferences not long ago. In another life, she would have demonized the man, cast him out as an unholy sodomite. But in this bracingly-modern age, after all the hardships and trials they’d faced together... It was all but trivia, really.

_Then why is he eyeing me like a jewel merchant at a bazaar?_

Her pall of suspicion must have been obvious to the man, because he abruptly broke off and changed the subject to something that tested her enforced calm.

“...foot massage?”

Zara blinked.

“What?”

His clipped accent returned. “A foot massage. You look like a lady in need of one, that’s all.”

Said lady’s eyebrow could have been borne among the stars themselves, had her physical ability matched her will.

Lawrence picked up on the potential implications of his offer, raising his hands almost as if to ward them off. “I have no intention of impugning upon your honor… and if you wish it, I will remove myself from this housing without another word.”

That last bit did sound appealing, if anything for the removal of the man’s constant prattling, but… her feet _were_ almost numb in their achiness. These “boots” that she’d forced herself to adopt as she took on scouting and combat duties for the rebels were a far cry from comfort. She longed for the days that she could simply slip her feet into a well-worn pair of sandals - or better yet, just go barefoot on the smooth stone of her house.

But then, of course, her house was a gutted ruin, and her sandals had been left behind to rest with the char and bones.

_Hmph._

She would make do with what she had.

Lawrence was halfway to the tent opening as Zara returned from her reverie; he’d clearly interpreted her prolonged silence as a tacit refusal.

“Fine,” she practically blurted out, now eager to be free of the uncomfortable throbbing that had so tinged her thoughts and actions.

The rebel leader paused. “Pardon?”

Zara composed herself, then cooly started again. “You have my permission.” Almost to punctuate that, she unfurled her legs outwards from the stool, letting the backs of her boots’ black heels rest upon the sand-tinted rug. The hardened leather soles faced up towards Lawrence.

With a mysterious gleam in his eye, he replied, “Very good.”

And then continued on his merry way.

Before Zara could even voice her confusion, Lawrence added, “Be back in a minute,” his voice somewhat muffled by the wind outside the tent.

True to his word, he returned presently, with a small basin of water and a cloth. 

Zara restrained a harrumph; again, here was Lawrence and his incessant need to place her atop a pedestal. All she wished for was some relief for her feet, not to be worshipped like his god’s messiah.

But in seeing the candlelight glint off the lightly-bucking surface of the water as Lawrence laid the basin down on the rug, Zara had to admit that she’d earned at least a _little_ bit of excess relief, after all she had gone through.

She’d set the rest of the water out for the horses, once they were done.

Lawrence made himself comfortable, throwing down a small cushion for himself on the rug before settling atop it. He silently took one of the woman’s outstretched legs, and began undoing the tangled cord of rope that hemmed her pants closed above the ankle. 

Zara had learned this trick from the men, of cinching the pant leg shut to prevent the dust and sand from accumulating uncomfortably, but also to cut off a potential point of refuge for all manner of small desert creatures. Still, she couldn’t help but feel relief as the rope fell away and the material of her pants slackened, for it did _not_ do wonders for circulation down there.

Lawrence loosened the other cord, shaking the dust out of the bottoms of her pant legs as he did so. Regarding the inky-black, worn footwear creeping up his companion’s calves, he muttered a brief curse, and then…

“You know, I… I truly am sorry for forcing these upon you.” 

Seeing the genuine apology in his eyes, Zara rolled her own, a mix of annoyment and bemusement flashing forth from the incandescent soul contained within them. 

“You forced nothing.”

He stopped, raising an eyebrow and tweaking his head in ready preparation for her follow-up.

She sighed.

“I made the choice to fight with you. _For_ you.”

Lawrence’s face displayed an appropriate amount of self-admonishment. He pondered.

“And I suppose, to you, these,” rapping a knuckle on the tough boot leather for effect, “comprise a, um, _package deal_ , or something to that effect?”

It took a second for Zara to comprehend the unfamiliar term, but she nodded.

Lawrence brightened. “Well! Seeing as the fight is over - for now, anyway - I do believe I can relieve you of _this_ burden as well.”

As the words left his mouth, his fingers got to work on the thick laces running down the front of her left boot, untangling and loosening them with unsurprising speed and dexterity.

Zara shivered as she felt the bare, cool skin of the man’s hand on her flaming-hot-by-comparison calf as he braced to pull off the close-fitting footwear. But the thing slipped off with minimal effort, and part of Zara wondered if he’d just used the whole endeavor as an excuse to touch her, skin-on-skin.

_But it couldn’t be… could it?_

So lost in thought was Zara that she failed to notice Lawrence repeating the exact same motion with the other boot, leaving two sock-ensconced feet before him. These too were part of the “package deal” - and Zara hated the wooly things even more than the boots. It seemed like all the sands of Alexandria inhabited them after the day was done, and even before it _was_ , the many trapped grains rubbed uncomfortably against her ankles.

Either way, the boots were blessedly gone. Zara practically cooed in relief, rolling her joints and flexing her toes as if to luxuriate in the freeing sensation. 

That is, until, the smell hit her.

She froze as the pungent foot odor wafted up into her nostrils. Embarrassment and self-consciousness crept to the forefront of her consciousness as she chanced a look down at Lawrence.

Zara expected, at the very least, a scrunched-up nose evocative of the dainty Englishman that Lawrence so often was. But he merely stared at her, an easy-going expression betraying not the slightest hint of discomfort. 

His eyes sought permission.

Zara found her voice. “Go ahead.”

And so the Englishman’s fingers latched onto the tops of those olive-green socks, drawing them down his confidant’s lower calves until they bunched messily at her ankles. His hands then drifted to the part of the sock covering her toes and, making sure to have a firm grip, began to pull.

The ruffled mess upon her feet slowly smoothed out as the tips of her socks drew farther and farther away. As the bunches at her ankles resolved in unwrinkled wool, Zara couldn’t help but bite her lip in anticipation.

 _Damn him for drawing this out, anyway_.

But just as the thought occurred to her, they were free, and Lawrence set them aside as he looked upon his now evident prize.

Though she lived in the desert, Zara was just as concerned about personal hygiene as any other woman, and made it a habit to maintain her skin - even of her feet - properly. 

But it went one further with her, Lawrence realized, as his sight tracked the line of small circular tattoos - not at all dissimilar to the ones gracing her face - running down her ankle and the tops of her feet, terminating in five lines atop five surprisingly-delicate toes.

Not even a blind herdsman could have missed the man’s interest, but Zara, ever-patient, waited on Lawrence’s reaction.

“They’re beautiful.”

Zara smirked, her suspicions confirmed. “They are.”

A beat.

“May I ask why-”

“No.” 

The smirk held.

Lawrence caught her gaze, saw the firm, yet oddly-mischievous tone of her pronouncement echoed in her eyes. He let it be, artistic interest be damned.

“As you say.” 

The Englishman rolled the grey cuffs of Zara’s pants up to just above her well-developed calves. He then reached for the basin, wet the washcloth in its watery environs, and got to work.

Zara’s head slightly dipped back against the stanchion as she closed her eyes and surrendered herself to the sensations now buffeting her. The wet coarseness of the small towel was as a cleansing flame against her dry, dusty soles, thanks to Lawrence’s diligence.

There was no spot, no crevice that escaped his notice, that much was evident to Zara. Her core began to thrum as the man rubbed again and again at the sensitive areas between her toes and below her heel. 

Again. And again. _And again._

Zara snapped back to reality, her defense mechanisms engaging.

“L-Lawrence.” The voice was stilted, strained as its owner grappled with a reawakening arousal.

The man’s head snapped up, his own trance broken. “Yes?”

Zara scrambled to inject some authority back into her voice. “They’re clean.”

Lawrence looked down at the objects of his maintenance. “Ah. So they are.”

 _Bastard_ , she thought.

Lawrence set the cloth aside and cracked his fingers. Zara didn’t know if it was some trick of acoustics or not, but the sound was almost deafening in the confines of the tent.

“I say, my bones must be made of pure granite to make such a cursed noise”. 

Zara shrugged, but internally, the sound had resurfaced a recurring thought about Lawrence, about _everything_ , one that dogged her every now and again in the quiet moments.

This was a man not of this land, nor of its culture. And yet, here he was, head of a burgeoning cultural movement sweeping said land. Again and again, she’d asked herself, “How?”

Of course, she could explain it in terms of events that had occurred. How the Englishman had swept in like a gale on his guile and knowledge, upraising the beleaguered rebels and embarking on increasingly-risky missions that won him the respect of his peers.

That would be the account transcribed into some dusty history book somewhere, she assumed.

But it all still seemed so unreal, as if at any moment, Zara would wake up in her house, dear husband and children not far from her beckon. She’d regale them with the fantastical tale of a strange man from far away leading a crusade against oppression, and how she herself had become a warrior in his service.

And how he eventually found his way into her tent, so he may… massage her feet?

This went beyond fantasy for Zara, but as she stared into Lawrence’s eyes, saw the raw charisma in his stare, saw his _pulsing_ soul… well, she could understand it a bit.

And then, tanned fingers tracing her tattoos, he began.

The second Lawrence flexed his digits into the tired flesh of Zara’s soles, it was as if a vase had blown its cork. All the tension, all that profound uneasiness with herself and her current situation, _all_ flowed out from between the man’s fingers. 

Zara couldn’t help herself from sighing and sinking low atop her stool, her feet pushing needfully onto Lawrence’s lap as he continued his ministrations. 

Internally, she admitted her truths: This mere massage went hand-in-hand with _avenging her very family_ in terms of how simply - and utterly - fulfilled it made her feel. Echoes of shame _and_ excitement criss-crossed her perception as Lawrence rubbed diligently at her toes and the balls of her feet.

This _was_ her reward. Personal relaxation at the hands of the one person remaining in her life who she actually trusted. Her family was gone, reduced to merely whirling trails of dust in the night wind. But they were at peace now, Zara having visited her vengeance upon their killers.

With Lawrence at her side.

His fingers now _dug_ into the meat of her feet, the twisting pain and pleasure of it all making Zara groan and writhe. She felt hot all over. 

Without thinking, her hands moved to divest herself of her gunbelt and bandolier. As the brass of collected rifle rounds quietly thumped upon the sand, Zara suddenly stopped. Barely a sound though it was, it punctuated a stillness in the tent. The massage had ceased.

Her eyes gained cognizance, and focused on the man below her. 

A man stared right back up at them.

But Lawrence, that of easy charisma, of vital energy, had been replaced. The open discomfort in _this_ person’s eyes reminded Zara of herself, more than anything.

Shame buffeted the rebel. In this moment of weakness, earned though it was, Zara had forgotten. 

Lawrence could never truly be hers. Allies, yes. Friends, yes. But anything more...

_Oh, I am a fool._

Zara found her voice. Pulled her feet away. “Thank you, Lawrence.” she scratched out. She strained for something more. “I… I…”

She knew he could see the open regret in her eyes, but this one time, she wouldn’t try to hide such emotion. Zara needed him to know she hadn’t meant to... 

“It’s okay, Zara.” The warm reassurance immediately acted as a salve on her frayed state of being.

Lawrence had returned.

He gathered the basin and the towel, standing to look kindly upon his second-in-command.

“I am honored by your trust. And that I brought you a measure of solace tonight, well… it warms me as much as the morning sun.”

The words came effortlessly out of his mouth, almost as if they’d been prepared in advance.

Zara, on the other hand, had none.

Taking her silence as appropriate acknowledgement regardless, Lawrence nodded politely and trotted out of the tent into the starlit dark.

It took the rebel a minute to process the confluence of emotions whirling inside her.

When she finally did, the sigh she emitted was not one of trite annoyance or heady arousal, but of simple, accepting bemusement.

“Lawrence of Arabia.” She drawled the half-name, half-title out, letting the words sink into the sand around her. 

Voice lighter than air, Zara tutted out a “Hmm.” and plucked her knife up from its resting place. The bracers, she concluded, still needed cleaning.

  
  
  
  


**Author's Note:**

> Incredibly-niche? Yes. Fun to write? Naturally.


End file.
